Aftermath and Affection
by wilma.de.worde
Summary: In Progress. Four months after their encounter with Moriarty, the Watson-Holmes family struggles to recover and move forward. (Johnlock; Parentlock; Mollstrade; plenty of time with Hamish and Will; TW: PTSD, past torture, past abuse, past drug abuse; proposals; Sherlock is really sick of serviettes.)
1. Chapter 1: Innig

Hamish awoke to a strangled cry from the next bed. His eyes fluttered open and took in Will's white, sweaty face. His chest rose and fell rapidly in the soft light from the window. Hamish waited for his breathing to slow and watched his growing Adam's apple bounce.

The nightmares were growing worse.

After a moment, Will felt eyes on him and turned. His cheeks grew paler at the look on Hamish's face.

'I can't sleep,' Hamish offered. The responding flush of gratitude almost made him cry.

Will scooted back against the wall and lifted his well-loved quilt. Hamish clambered out of bed and crawled beneath it, snuggling against his brother. He listened to Will's hammering pulse.

'I don't like the dark anymore, Mish.'

'I never liked it.'

'You're much smarter than me.'

Hamish wished Will knew that wasn't true, that Hamish might read more but Will was always the one with the clever schemes and quick thinking. 'I like it even less now.'

Will sighed, his eyes searching the ceiling. 'I'll never like it again.' Hamish decided he didn't care that Will was too old for such things and wrapped an arm around him. Will clutched it gently. Outside the window, a passing stranger laughed.

'Mish?'

'Yeah?'

Will swallowed again. Hamish craned his neck to watch the slow parade of emotions that crossed his brother's face. 'Please don't tell Papa.'

Hamish curled closer, tucking his head under Will's chin. 'He wouldn't like it.'

'I know. I just want a chance to sort it out myself before I make him worry.'

He nodded. 'I won't say anything.' Will gave his arm a companionable squeeze. 'Dad's bound to figure it out.'

Will hesitated. 'I know. I think he already has.'

'I think so, too.'

Will sighed. 'Well. That's Dad, isn't it?'

Hamish smiled and settled against his collar. 'That's Dad,' he agreed.

A floor below, their father wasn't sleeping either.

Four months should be plenty of time to recover. It certainly had been for the number of dreadful things that came before. Yet here they were, still knee-deep in all of it. Will was having nightmares and Hamish was always standing a bit closer to him than was necessary. John was watchful and twitchy and not eating as much as he should, one ear cocked to the door, one hand close to his waistband, the creases above his brow and at the corners of his mouth growing deeper by the day. And he wasn't sleeping himself. The surgeon had said he needed to sleep. Strange how something that had never held any import in his life could be such a clear indication of his uneasiness.

Eleven years. It wasn't anything new, the knowledge that Moriarty was nearby and content to postpone their meeting until Sherlock let his guard down. The man had blown his own brains out and still managed to show up and lead him on a miserable chase. Sherlock remembered the odd gratitude that had filled him on that day so long ago: sitting rigid in his too-comfortable aeroplane seat, knowing he was on his way to his (_actual, real, in-the-ground-and-never-ever-coming-back_) death, John's awkward, strained chuckle echoing through his head…and then the call. The game was on once more. And he didn't have to leave him again after all.

He'd been _thankful_. He hated himself for that but it was true. He'd allowed Moriarty to toy with him and run him ragged and evade capture because Moriarty had rescued him. Those dark, demented eyes and that delighted smile when they'd finally met once more, he _knew _the bounds of his gratitude. He knew Sherlock owed him now. He would expect to be repaid. And he didn't mind waiting at all.

Eleven years. The debt of a boy's lifetime. A debt that demanded collateral.

He was out there now, somewhere, hidden and quiet and laughing to himself. And Sherlock had no idea where to look. Sherlock had no idea how to keep them safe. It was tearing them all apart.

Mycroft had wanted to put them into protective custody, take the boys someplace far away and keep them safe from the ticking bomb that was their father. But John-wonderful, trusting, exceptional John; his companion, his best friend, his conscience and humanity and every good and righteous thing in this godforsaken world-John had looked at his brother and _smiled_. It was a smile Sherlock loved and feared: tight-lipped and collected and humourless; the smile that stated as clear as day that the mountain was awake and the villagers ought to evacuate now or there would be no survivors.

'Mycroft,' he'd said, quiet and deep in his chest, sending a thrill up Sherlock's spine that he would make a point of discussing at length once his brother had cleared out and the boys were in bed. 'Please suggest that I can't take care of my family again. I would _love _to see what happens.'

So they kept together. That was the most important part, of course. But now that they _were_ together and would _stay_ together, everything was _still_ crumbling around him. He didn't know what to do. Would he ever know again?

He felt warm, moist lips at the juncture of his jaw and neck and couldn't resist sighing. John nuzzled behind his ear. He cleared his throat. 'How did you know?'

'That you were still awake? Easy: I didn't feel like I was kipping with an enthusiastic octopus.' He was smiling. How did John always make him smile? The world was ending; he shouldn't be pleased in the least. 'You're thinking too much again, aren't you?'

'No such thing.'

'Mm. There is. You're very good at it.'

'Will's having nightmares.'

'I know.'

'So are you.'

'Yes. I have them a lot.'

'Not anymore. Not before.'

'I have a history.' John's thumb found his bottom lip and he realised he'd been chewing it. He sighed, his teeth closing down on the digit just above John's nail. His skin tasted like toothpaste tonight. John curled in closer, his head resting on Sherlock's shoulder. 'What is it, love? You've been off in your head for days.'

'I know.' John's hand shifted away, tracing the line of Sherlock's jaw. Sherlock swallowed and wondered if he'd possibly gone mad. 'Do you remember what we talked about in Brussels?'

'We talked about a lot of things.'

'Yes, but do you remember _the _thing we discussed?'

He could almost hear John's brow furrow. He held his breath. John's fingers slid around to the side of his neck as his face came into view: perplexed and amused and just short of believing. 'Are you talking about what I think you're talking about?'

Sherlock gazed at him a bit too long. 'This is a very inefficient conversation.'

'Jesus Christ-' John sat up, turning to face him head on. 'Sherlock, are you talking about when you proposed to me?'

'I believe _you_ proposed to _me_-'

'Are you talking about _our proposals_?'

'Possibly?'

'That's very helpful, thank you.'

'We should get married.'

John gaped. 'What, _now_?'

'As soon as possible, yes.'

'Why?'

'What?' he sneered, 'What do you mean, "why"? You wanted to do at one point!'

'Why _now_, Sherlock?'

'You know why.'

He rolled his eyes; never a good sign, but at least he was smiling. Things were better when John was smiling. 'I have a guess, yes, but I'd appreciate elucidation all the same.'

Sherlock sat up on his elbows and took a breath. John was making a point of being patient and it was both endearing and extraordinarily irritating. 'I can't lose you again, John. Yes, I know, you're not going anywhere; don't look at me like that. But all the same, this would sort of, well, make it official. And legal, I guess. So there wouldn't be any questions. About things. If things arise.'

John's eyes were dancing in the dim light from the street. 'You're really rubbish at this when you're not drunk. You do realise that, don't you?'

'Yes, and you're making it much easier, thank you.'

John chuckled, rough and warming. 'So by "things", do you mean…what? Guaranteed conjugal visits once you finally get arrested?'

He rolled his eyes. 'The will, the trust, hospital rights, avoiding any unforeseen guardianship issues with the boys-'

'Sherlock.'

'It would be the responsible thing to do. I thought you went in for that sort of thing.'

'_Sherlock_.'

'I just- I need to know that our affairs are in order.'

'So this is just to make legal matters easier?'

'Don't be absurd.'

'_You're_ being absurd.'

Sherlock closed his eyes. He was going about this all wrong-he was very aware of that-but the right words seemed to be stuck somewhere, lost forever. He lay back against the pillows and tugged John closer, rolling to his side and tangling their legs together. John's smirk was half-cocked and gorgeous. 'I know I'm cocking this up, John. I don't mean to be.'

'I know, love.'

'I want to, though. I want to marry you. I want it on paper and filed away somewhere that there's only one person in the world to whom I belong and I was clever enough to find him. I want an official record that we're partners, legally, and it will take a lot of paperwork and unpleasantness to change that fact. I want to feel utterly ludicrous in a room full of too many people just so I can prove to everyone we know that I did something right for a change. Because I _did _do something right, John, and I still have no idea how I managed it, but you're here and our sons are upstairs and a lunatic just tried to take them away from us and take me away from you, and the only thing that makes any of that marginally tolerable is the fact that I keep waking up from these horrible dreams and you're still in bed beside me. And, honestly, if we have to endure all of that wretchedness anyway, the very _least _we're owed is a ridiculous certificate saying that we're still here and we're united and there's not a damn thing Mycroft or Moriarty or _anyone_ can do about it.' John cupped his cheek, and Sherlock couldn't decide if he was going to laugh or cry. 'I cocked it up again, didn't I?'

'Shut up.' John kissed him, his body rolling flush against him, fingers tangling in his messy curls. 'Yes; of course yes, you stupid git.'

'Really?'

'Absolutely. You'd be lost without me, for God's sake.'

'I would be. I'd be completely doomed.'

'Can't even say a proper proposal. You're an idiot.' Sherlock laughed into John's mouth. 'Why on Earth do I love you so much?'

'I don't know, John. I honestly have no idea. Please don't ever stop.'

'Never. You know how much paperwork bores me.' Their lips found each other again, and Sherlock drank him in until they were both breathless. 'When?'

'Soon, please. Before I can cock up enough to change your mind.'

'Stop saying "cock". It's distracting me.' If Sherlock were not incapable of such things, he would say that John's command made him giggle. John simply grinned harder and nipped his lower lip. 'We should tell the boys. They'll die of shock.'

'We can always make some more.'

'No. No more. After this, I'm not sharing you with anyone.' Sherlock's kiss was sloppy and joyful. John laughed. 'You're mad. My mad genius. I'm never letting you go again.'

'I love you.'

'You're clever like that. God, Sherly, shut up. I've got much better plans for your mouth.'


	2. Chapter 2: Vorgetragen

The scent of crepes and frying bacon wafted up the stairs and brought Will nose-first into wakefulness. Something was up; he knew it as well as he knew this room and the smell of his brother's soap and the 'secret' location of his father's stash of Jaffa cakes. Hamish shot up beside him, hair mussed and eyes still puffy from sleep.

'Is that-?'

'Yes.' He swallowed. 'Father's cooking.'

Hamish's eyes went wide. 'What could it be?'

Paranoia crept in as he racked his brain for any recent calamities that may have caused this sudden display of paternal affection. There was the obvious, of course, but it seemed a bit late to try and ease his trauma with a liberal application of bacon and brandy. Aside from that, however, life at Baker Street had been trickling back to what they considered normal: Dad was back on the occasional case; Papa was picking up hours at the surgery (although very few and only while they were at school); even Aunt Molly had cut down on her visits and was again on her usual Sunday rotation, now with Uncle Greg in tow. 'Something must have happened last night.'

'Oh no…' Hamish fell back against the pillow, his hands on his face. 'I swear, if Uncle Mycroft says we have to spend another fortnight in Gloucestershire, I'm running off to Barcelona and hiding with Uncle Sherr.'

'Not if I beat you there.' He swung his legs over the side of the bed and jabbed Hamish's belly with his index finger. 'Come on. Best to get this over with.'

It wasn't as if Will and Hamish didn't enjoy their father's cooking. It was quite the opposite, actually. He attended to any dish with the same focus and diligence he applied to the grizzliest of crime scenes, and the result was always mouth-watering perfection. It was the rarity of the event that warranted suspicion. Dad cooked breakfast on birthdays (not applicable), Christmas Eve (months away), and, inexplicably, 3rd November (it was March). On all intermittent days, the appearance of his early-morning catering was an omen and usually a bad one at that. Papa had left suddenly for Aunt Harry's or Gran and Grandpapa were coming for an unscheduled visit or Mycroft was meddling in their affairs again. His succulent dishes were his way of apology and comfort, and the boys had learned to be wary of these meals.

It was with cautious eyes that they watched their father as he finished piling up their plates with what would no doubt prove to be the best breakfast they had had in weeks. Papa sat impassive at the table with his morning cuppa and the paper Dad had probably nicked from Mrs Hudson's door. Will's skin was tingling with anticipation. Hamish kept glancing at him out of the corner of his eye.

'There we are,' Dad said, setting down the matching plates before going back to collect one for Papa. He returned after a moment with his own small plate: another dangerous sign. The boys exchanged knowing looks. 'Go on, tuck in. It's better hot.'

'What's going on?' Hamish asked. Will kicked him under the table and received a glare.

Papa folded the paper with far more focus than was required and set it squarely on the table before taking a long sip of tea. 'Who said anything was going on?'

'You did. Just now. You're using the voice.'

Dad was grinning. Papa shot him a look. 'He's _your_ son.'

'He's _our_ son.'

'Papa.' Will cleared his throat. 'Papa, Dad's cooking breakfast and it isn't October and you're too calm and we're not stupid.'

'Of course you're not, darling,' Dad cut in. He was eating. He was actually, physically eating like it was the most natural thing in the world. Will couldn't help but stare.

'Dad?' Hamish sounded so small next to him. His eyes were fixed on the now-empty fork in their father's hand. 'Are you dying?'

'Not in the least. I am known to be indestructible.'

Papa bit back a smirk. A _smirk_. Patricide was becoming a more attractive option by the minute. 'What's gotten into you two? Aren't you hungry?'

Without a second thought, Will grabbed his father's mug and sniffed it. _Sugar_. Papa had _sugar _in his _tea_. Sugar and his best dressing gown and, god, the good brandy Mycroft gave them last Christmas on the worktop and Dad had definitely nicked Papa's cologne again. He glowered at his father and set down his mug. 'They're up to something, Mish.'

'Something bad?'

'Devious, maybe. Not bad.' Dad chuckled and _took another bite_. 'You're not nearly as sneaky as you think you are, you know.'

'I am making no attempt whatsoever to _be _sneaky, William.'

Hamish peered at him, his bright eyes subtly flicking over his father's face. 'Your shoulder is hurting this morning.'

'Very good.'

'Papa must have slept on it. You didn't make him move. This is only the second time he's forgotten about your shoulder since we got back from hospital. The first was a week after.'

'That's correct.'

'Which means you had intercourse last night and it was really good.'

Will blanched. Papa sat back in his chair, his arms crossed and a bemused smile on his face. 'Hamish, please tell me your father hasn't been discussing our sex life with you again.'

'He might have just been overtired,' Dad replied.

'No. Papa wouldn't forget you were hurt unless he was completely distracted. Balance of probability, you distracted him with intercourse.'

'Could you _please _stop saying "intercourse"?' Will whinged.

'And since he was such a mess the last time it happened and he'd never do it again on purpose, there had to be a reason why…' Dad raised an eyebrow in obvious challenge. Hamish frowned and glanced around, spotting a notepad next to Papa's phone, days and times listed in military fashion and the word _Registrar_ in his careful block print. His eyes widened, his head whipping back to his father. 'No!'

'Yes.'

'Seriously?'

He shrugged. 'Why not?'

'What is it?' Will demanded.

'They're planning a do.'

'Don't be stupid.'

'Will.' Hamish turned to his brother, his solemn expression making his words unnecessary. 'They're planning a _do_.'

Will stared at him, his mouth agape. He turned to his fathers, the same aquatic expression plastered to his face. 'You're joking!'

Papa looked at Dad, their hands finding each other under the table. His smile was downright soppy. 'I'm afraid not.'

'But _why_?'

Dad grinned, his eyes still on Papa's. 'Odd. That's the same thing your father said when I asked.'

'It's a bit queer, isn't it? You've been together for ages.'

'Yes, which helps to guarantee the long-term success of our union.'

'I didn't say it wouldn't be successful. It just seems a bit pointless is all.'

Papa cocked his head to one side. 'It's not your decision, Will.'

'I know! I just want to understand, that's all.'

'It's the trust, isn't it?'

It was always a little funny to him, that when Hamish spoke, their parents always listened. It was almost like they didn't expect it, even after all this time. 'It is,' Dad replied, 'But not entirely.'

'The trust and us almost dying and everything.' He said this casually, as if he'd been stating that it might rain later.

'That certainly plays a factor, yes.'

'So it's for us?' Papa's eyes found his once more. 'Hamish and me?'

'It's for all of us, bug. It's so the whole world understands what we already know.'

'Since when do we care about other people's opinions?'

'We don't. But we don't want them to have any ground to stand on either.'

Will watched him a minute, the contracting of his pupils that always gave away his true defiance. Papa was preparing for battle. The whole thing was as simple as that. He felt a smile creeping across his mouth. 'I'm not wearing the outfit.'

Hamish huffed and rolled his eyes. 'Of course you are, stupid.' Papa's brows rose in surprise. Hamish shrugged. 'He'll see that the girls fancy him more in it and he'll never take it off. Obvious.'

Will flushed, but thought it better not to give Hamish the pleasure of a retort.


	3. Chapter 3: Bewegt

It felt good to be back at the surgery. As much as he loved tearing after Sherlock, scouting the city for ne'er-do-wells and leaping across rooftops, he'd missed the more normal aspects of his life. Sherlock wouldn't understand it if he told him. He thought John's work boring. But it was good for John to get some time away, to be forced to focus on other people's problems. Flu and piles were so much simpler than his current lot. At the very least, he knew what to do to fix them.

He didn't, for instance, know what to do about Will's nightmares, or how to apologise for them. He knew they were his fault, that his own history played a significant part in Will's daily terrors, but how was he to reconcile that with a twelve-year-old boy? How could he explain that the reason Will suffered so much more visibly than his own brother was because he drew an unfortunate flush in the biological cards?

It was better to be here, to soothe scraped knees and banal viruses, to do what little good he could in the world. It gave him time to think and a chance to forgive himself. It gave Sherlock room to work without having to worry about John having yet another sleepless night.

It would be better soon, he told himself. They'd all be so much better with time.

He was going to keep repeating that until it turned out to be true.

Cassandra popped in with some tea and a flirty grin, pulling him away from his darkening thoughts. 'Did you hear the news just now, Doctor Watson?'

'Can't say I have. Been a bit busy.' He offered a smile in return. She didn't notice when it didn't reach his eyes.

'Only there's been a bit of a shooting at a school in Marylebone. Terrible shame.'

He nearly spat out his tea. 'There's been a _what? WHERE?'_

She was too flustered to be of any assistance, and John was already out the door by the time she recovered, his coat and patients forgotten. He was on the phone and in a cab in no time. 'For god's sake, Greg, tell me it's not St Mary's!'

He sounded as weary as John was frantic. 'You would've been the first to know, mate. Portland Place. Some chav thought it'd be a laugh to bring his dad's rifle in to show his mates. Gun went off in the corridor; no one was hurt.'

'Christ.' John sank into the back of the cab, his heart pounding tympanic. 'Jesus Christ.'

'I sent Sally to St M's first thing. The boys are both in class, didn't even know it'd happened.'

'Thank god…' He tasted bile in his throat, his whole body a mess of cold sweat. 'Th-thank you, Greg. I mean it.'

'You alright?'

'Yeah. Of course. Just needed to hear the good news is all.' He rubbed his clammy palm against his trouser leg.

'Right. Glad I could give it to you.' John nodded, willing away Greg's awkward silence. 'Hey, Moll and I aren't up to anything this evening. Why don't we swing by and take the boys to the pictures? There's that new superhero thing out. Will loves those.'

'Uh, yeah. Sure. That sounds nice.' He swallowed, fumbling for his wallet. 'Let me, uh, check with the other half. Make sure nothing's on.'

'Right. Well, give us a ring. We're both free at six.'

'Yeah. Cheers, mate. See you later maybe.' He hung up in a daze, passing a tenner to the cabbie as he lurched out onto the kerb. He wiped at his brow and found it dripping with sweat. '_Christ_.'

Sherlock was in the kitchen, as John knew he would be, oblivious to the drama of the last few minutes. His brow had no doubt furrowed the moment he heard John's tread on the stairs, but now his eyes were wide and worried. 'John?'

John found he couldn't speak. His pulse was still beating a stuttering tattoo, blood roaring in his ears. His hands shook as he reached for the sofa, falling into it gracelessly. Sherlock was beside him before he noticed where he'd landed, warm arms wrapping around his trembling frame.

'It's all right, John. Everything's all right. Shh…'

'God, Sherlock-'

'I have you, darling. I'll always have you.'

He wasn't certain how long it took to come back down to earth. In that time, he'd been wrapped in the afghan from the back of the sofa, his tie and shoes removed, his collar unbuttoned. He snuggled into the old sofa, his ears picking up the soft conversation from the kitchen. Sherlock had phoned Sarah - that much was clear - and was inventing some sort of acceptable excuse for his sudden departure. He smiled a little to himself and felt a pinch of his anxiety leave him.

'It's been going around the school for weeks now. …No, not me; I never do. …Well, I assume it's because I'm not human…'

John shook his head and kept his eyes closed. Sarah wouldn't discourage Sherlock's phrasing, but he knew she didn't believe it. It simply wasn't in her nature to compliment a man who had nearly, albeit inadvertently, caused her untimely demise.

'I certainly will. …Plenty of fluids, lots of rest, he'll be right as a trivet in no time. …I will. …Hamish too. …Thank you, Sarah. Good day.'

The sofa sank beside him after a moment and long fingers slid into his hair. He sighed, feeling his limbs relax under the touch. 'You're not much of an actor, John; I can see your lip twitching.'

'I don't know what you're talking about,' he murmured.

'Of course not. Are you going to tell me what happened?'

He sighed again, far less relaxed than he had been a moment before. 'Does it have to be right now?'

'No. But I'm told I grow more obnoxious as my curiosity increases.'

John couldn't argue with that. 'Shooting at a school.'

'Not St Mary's.' It wasn't a question.

'Portland Place. No one was hurt.'

'And Lestrade?'

'Sent Donovan to check on the boys. I think she wanted to have a look in on Sam as well.'

'Understandable.' He tugged the hair between his fingers gently, his eyes drawn to the movement. 'You found out at work. No details, just that there was a gun at a school.'

'Cassandra told me.'

'She's an idiot.' He nudged John's cheek until he opened his eyes. His face was so close, green and silver irises searching for further information. The hand against his scalp eased its pressure and slid to cup his cheek. Sherlock placed a gentle kiss to his lips. 'Shall we meet them for the walk home?'

John studied him a moment before nodding. 'Let's, yes.'

'Hm. There's a new gelato establishment on the way back. I think we'd all fancy a treat.'

'You mean _you'd_ fancy a treat.'

'I am included in "we", aren't I?' He wiped at a tear just cresting the corner of John's eye. 'Perhaps the Tate tomorrow? Or a trip to the zoo? It's been a while since we had a day out.'

'Yes.' His heart was swelling, relieved tears threatening to erupt. He settled for squeezing Sherlock's hand and offering a watery smile. 'Just us and our boys.'


	4. Chapter 4: Gebunden

He didn't need Dad's deductive powers to know that the whispers in the corridors were about him and his brother. Any idiot could have figured that out, and he was quite certain at least two hundred and eight already had. It didn't matter to him, really; he was used to being the topic of fascination among his own class, so why was this any different? It was simply a larger pool of onlookers. But he hated that Will-likeable Will, clever Will, the cause of an impressive number of stuffed bras in year six-was suddenly the subject of such ridicule. It seemed to throw off the whole balance of the cosmos.

It didn't help that the scrutiny had intensified, that the curious glances had been replaced by physical confrontations. He hoped that Will hadn't been subjected to the kind of locker room antagonism he'd received, but it was easy enough to picture Harley Jameson shoving him against a wall and yanking down his pants to see if the rumours were true. He didn't think Will could handle that. He wasn't sure if he could handle that happening to Will either.

It was odd how their positions had reversed in the preceding months. He wasn't at all comfortable with the new status quo. Will was…fragile; there was no other word to describe it. He jumped at out-of-place noises and refused to go to bed before Hamish, no matter how tired he obviously was. He had all but quit football, saying that he preferred to walk Hamish home and check that Dad hadn't lit the kitchen on fire. He was quieter, withdrawn. It wasn't like him at all.

Hamish had felt himself swell to compensate for the loss: making conversation where there needn't be any just to fill the silence; requesting outings to pictures and the park, not because he had any interest himself, but because Will liked to do those things. He was discombobulated by the whole experience. It was bad enough taming Will's nightmares and dodging bullies at school; must he alter his entire personality as well?

But it was necessary, wasn't it? Will couldn't make Papa laugh right now, so someone needed to do it. Will couldn't ask for a trip to the zoo, but staying at home was killing him. They'd gotten away from the man in the hat, from Moriarty, from hospital. What was the point of surviving if their lives had lost the spark Will brought with him?

His thoughts muddled and frantic, he didn't notice Ms Stoker until they'd almost collided. She made some good-natured reprimand as he apologised. That seemed to happen a lot of late. He was finding it more and more difficult to avoid getting lost in his own head, his mind filled with anxiety and speculation. He missed daydreaming about the books he was reading, Papa's stories, new experiments. This constant worry wasn't any fun and he had yet to find a way to stifle it.

He heard footsteps behind him, quick and light, a slight lilt on the left side. He sighed. 'I'm going to the library and you can't talk me out of it.'

Sam fell into step beside him, her eyes no doubt rolling. 'It's still creepy when you do that.'

'Haven't you heard? _I'm _creepy.'

'You're not creepy; you're just weird. Come play with me.'

'No, thank you.'

She sighed. ''Mish, you can't run from them forever.'

An image flashed across his eyes of a few days before: Timmy and Jason's stares as Clayton laughed so hard his eyes watered and Hamish tugged his trousers back up to his waist. He hated himself for meekly slinging his bag over his shoulder and leaving the room, for not being brave enough to tell Ms Stoker or the Headmaster or Papa. Dad had looked at him a little longer than usual when he got home, but hadn't said anything. Later he'd come upstairs and left a mug of cinnamon milk at his elbow, ruffling his hair before heading back to the kitchen. Hamish had needed to curl up under his desk until he could breathe again. He swallowed at the memory and Sam's knowing gaze.

'I'm not running from them. I have a lot of work to do.'

'You can't spend your whole life hiding in the library.'

'Maybe _you _can't…'

'Just sock them and get it over with.'

He stopped in his tracks and stared at her. 'I don't hit people, Sam. Maybe you go in for that, but I don't.'

'Okay, so _I'll _hit them.' She grinned at him. She had lost a tooth recently and the jaunty gap made him smile. 'Their lot never can handle being hit by a girl.'

'Sam, _no one _can handle being hit by _you_.' His voice betrayed a long history of personal experience.

'You can thank my mum for that.'

'I won't.'

She rolled her eyes. 'Anyway. What are they supposed to think with you hiding from them all the time? You've got to show them you're not afraid.'

'There's a huge difference between "afraid" and "non-confrontational", and not just etymologically speaking-'

'And it's really not healthy to eat a dictionary for breakfast neither, you prig. You gotta think like them.'

Hamish stopped in his tracks at the idea, his face turning blank. 'I can't imagine anything more appalling.'

'You know what I mean.' She took him by the shoulders and turned him to face her. ''Mish, you're my best mate. You know that.'

'I do?'

'And you're great, you really are. But you're also… You know. _You._'

He blinked a few times. 'Cheers, Sam; that was quite enlightening.'

'I mean, you don't think like the rest of us. You don't follow our rules.' She took a breath at his continued quizzical expression. 'When a bloke debags you, you're not supposed to walk away.'

He felt his ears redden and ducked his head. 'Ah. So you heard.'

'Everybody heard.'

'That's…disappointing.'

'You should've pummelled him.'

'What good would that do?'

'What _good_?' For a moment he was certain she was going to strangle him. 'It's _good _to stand up for yourself! It's _good _to show him he can't push you around! It's _good _the whole school doesn't think you're a nancy!'

The words were out of her mouth before she realised what she was saying. Her teeth clicked shut and her cheeks burned. Hamish was looking at his shoes, an odd little half smile on his face. She had long ago learned to be wary of that smile. Her mum once told her she'd seen it on Dr Watson's face one too many times. 'The whole school thinks that, do they?' he murmured.

She cleared her throat and forced her spine to straighten. 'Not everyone. Not me.'

He nodded as if to himself and sucked on his bottom lip. She blinked and his eyes were boring into hers. Sam's breath caught a moment at the steady storm brewing. 'Sam, if that's the worst everyone is saying about me, then I think there's a lot to be said for hiding in the library.'

He adjusted the strap on his shoulder and resumed his trek down the corridor, his step surer than when she'd first seen him. She watched him a moment before she turned and hurried to the playground. It was weird, of course, but then so was Hamish. And she had to hand it to him: he knew how to end an argument.


End file.
